The Librarian & The Lady
by xstormqueenx
Summary: When curator Lady Isabella Devereux falls headfirst into trouble, it's only find herself up against Flynn Carsen and the Thief, one Ezekiel Jones. However, in the depths of disaster, enemies can become allies, Isabella discovering along the way the world isn't what she thought it was... {AU}.
1. Baron Brinkerhoff

**Author's Note:** This is a story based on the TV series 'Hooten and the Lady'. Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

* * *

 **Baron Brinkerhoff**

 _I said which way do I turn_ _  
_ _I forget everything I learned…_

Flynn lounged against a Grecian pillar, carelessly straightening his cravat, dark eyes narrowing above his false moustache. "Jenkins," he said into his gold fob watch, lifting it to his lips, "are you sure Baba Yaga is at the British Museum? It doesn't seem like her kind of joint."

"She's acquired a taste for the finer things in life," Jenkins said dryly, his voice emanating oddly from the depths of the fob watch, "classic literature, opera, Victoria Sponge. The British Museum is more or less like a trip to the beach for our dear Baba."

"My main question is _why_ she's here in the first place," Flynn said, glancing around, becoming distracted by a woman further up ahead. She was tottering towards him in high heels, looking rather like Bambi trying to navigate the ice, her pale face a mask of rigid concentration. "She's not just going to climb out her coffin and say, _oh, I really fancy a trip to the British Museum today_ , is she?" he said, retreating behind the pillar out of sight.

"I share your suspicions," Jenkins said reluctantly. "What Baba wants, Yaga gets. But _exactly_ what Baba Yaga wants is a complete conundrum worthy of Confucius."

"Maybe she really does want to soak up some culture," Flynn said, smoothing back his slicked back hair, "but we can't take the chance."

" _You_ can't take the chance," Jenkins corrected him, "Eve and the others are out on a case. You're on your own, boy."

Flynn puffed out his cheeks at the mention of Eve. That was a ship that had long sailed, regret running through his veins at what could have been. There was a frosty friendliness between them now, but he had taken to avoiding the Library whenever Eve was around, knowing he only had himself to blame.

"Remember the rowan stakes," Jenkins continued, rousing Flynn from his reverie, "but preferably you'll take her alive."

"I'd rather not spill blood over my new tweed suit," Flynn said with a frown, "not unless it was absolutely necessary. Such style is almost impossible to attain."

"Yes, that amber and gold check really brings out the flecks of green in your eyes," Jenkins said sarcastically. "Blood would just serve to spoil the effect."

"Speaking of style, what's with the facial hair?" Flynn demanded, watching the woman totter past until she was out of sight, her thick black fringe falling into bright blue eyes. "I do _not_ suit a moustache."

"But Baron Brinkerhoff does," Jenkins said coldly. "It would not bode well if Baba Yaga recognizes you."

"But _why_?" Flynn whined, collapsing dramatically against the wall. "Why would you inflict such pain upon my beautiful face?"

"Do not speak of your beautiful face, that work of art," Jenkins drawled, "I cannot live if it is not before me. I have to soothe my wounded heart with the sound of your dulcet tones instead."

"Hey" -

\- "I also take comfort from the lock of your hair I keep under my pillow," Jenkins continued, warming to his theme, "bestowing upon me the sweetest of slumbers."

"Well, it's nice to know that a single strand of my hair can bring light to the darkest of places," Flynn snapped, "but we're not here about my split ends" -

\- "Do not destroy the illusion," Jenkins intoned. "But enough of my admiration, we have to address the issue of Baba Yaga."

"Which is precisely what I'm trying to do," Flynn said peevishly, adjusting his monocle, "but we keep getting sidelined by my supernatural sex appeal."

"Who wouldn't?" Jenkins observed ironically.


	2. Take Me Back To The Start

**Take Me Back To The Start**

Isabella leaned back in her chair, refusing to face her overflowing in-tray, agitatedly twisting her engagement ring around her finger. Half closing her eyes, she forced herself to think of the gracious Grecian pillars that almost guarded the British Museum, embodying everything she believed in, why she was here.

"Good morning, Isabella."

Isabella started violently. "Susannahhihoweareya," she said in a wild rush, hastily straightening up in her seat, pasting a painful smile on her face, "allgoodyeah?"

Susannah just tapped her teeth discreetly, before sweeping away, leaving Isabella staring stupidly at an empty space. Shaking her head, Isabella snatched up her bag, the handles almost hanging off it, before rummaging for her compact. Pulling it out, she held it up, checking her reflection, only to see a piece of spinach caught between her front teeth, lending her the look of a demented rabbit.

Cringing, she pulled a crumpled lace hanky out of the pocket of her navy pinafore, before ducking down behind her desk, desperately trying to dislodge the spinach, swiping the hanky back and forth like windscreen wipers.

"Izzie?"

Isabella hastily straightened up at the sound of Archibald's voice, only to smack her head off the underside of her desk, nearly knocking herself out.

"I think I'll take that as my cue to take my leave," Archibald observed, making a dignified exit, leaving Isabella half lying under her desk.

"Good idea," Isabella said from between gritted teeth, clutching her head, before slowly emerging, bracing her body for impact as she sat back down, scrunching up her eyes as the seat almost spun away out from under her. Despite being born and bred with a silver spoon in her mouth, Isabella was the epitome of awkward, hardly the heir her ancestors would have approved of inheriting their auspicious name.

Smoothing down her skirt, Isabella cast her hanky into the bin, only to miss, Isabella pretending not to notice. She was striving to be professional and put together, only to fail abysmally, literally falling apart at the seams. Her black hair was coming out its bun, her navy pinafore more schoolgirl than sophisticate, her high heels making her totter like she was on a tightrope.

Pushing her fringe out of her eyes, Isabella dragged up the spreadsheet she'd been struggling with for the past two days, her bright blue gaze travelling over the columns of numbers, her fingers fighting the urge to throw the computer out of the window.

" _For_ the _sake_ of all that's _civilized_ , don't _slouch_ , Isabella! It makes you look... _deformed_."

Slowly, Isabella raised her eyes from the computer screen, only to be confronted by the elegant spectacle that was her stepmother, the current Lady Devereux, the sixth to hold that title. Her predecessors had all fallen victim to death and divorce, Isabella's mother eloping with the under gardener, but Isabella had long arrived at the conclusion this had been inevitable, not since the day her father had spat his false teeth into the face of the Queen, trying and failing to do justice to a particularly tongue-twisting Latin title of one of his beloved fungi, destroying whatever romance had remained in her parents' marriage.

"I do believe you're developing a _hunch_ , Isabella," Lady Devereux observed, her grey eyes narrowing, "it is most _unattractive_."

"And so is your tendency to speak in italics," Isabella said coolly, returning her attention back to the spreadsheet, her hand hovering over the mouse for a moment, before dropping it to her side. "Why are you here again?" she asked, brow furrowing. "You're not supposed to be here."

"I am _accompanying_ your father," Lady Devereux said with a regal wave of the hand, indicating Isabella's father by the bay window, all bizarrely round blue eyes and stooped figure, "he expressed a desire to sit in on your _meeting_."

"Why would he sit in on my meeting?" Isabella said slowly. The meeting was the Meeting in her mind, the culmination of everything that she'd been working towards for the past year, an exhibition devoted to the Victorian explorer Percy Fawcett.

"Isabella, _darling_ ," Lady Devereux said with a tinkling laugh, "your father is _above_ such _petty_ protocol. There's _something_ to be said about _friends_ in _high_ places - _he's_ the reason _why_ you got this _position_ in the _first_ place. In fact, he's practically _bankrolling_ the British Museum as it is" -

\- "Just because he stops a painting or so from being shipped out of the country, doesn't mean he owns the British Museum," Isabella said, struggling to keep her cool, "it was just an export bar and a few rather obscenely large donations he made"- As she spoke, her phone went off, the ringtone imitating Big Ben's chimes, making everybody's heads snap up, faces confused. "S'okay, j'st ma goddamn phone," Isabella called out, waving it in the air, everybody resuming their work.

"Do you _really_ need to speak like a _redneck_?" Lady Devereux said witheringly.

"Can't help it," Isabella said, squinting at her phone-screen, "it's in the blood."

Lady Devereux just pursed her lips, hiding her disgust at her husband's only heir being the offspring of new money, Isabella's mother a reluctant Southern belle who'd ran away to New York to study art. During her parents' divorce, Isabella had spent some time in Alabama with her mother's people, picking up something of their Southern tones, reinforcing the speech patterns she'd unconsciously imitated from her mother.

"Yum- _may,_ _Batata Harra_ and _Sfeeha_ tonight," Isabella said to herself, scrolling through the text from her fiancé Achraf, "even if I do say so myself, it's rather wise of me to marry a man who can cook."

"I can't _believe_ you're _marrying_ a snake _charmer_ ," Lady Devereux said, shaking her head, "it's _unheard_ of."

"He's not a snake charmer," Isabella said through gritted teeth, "he's a primary school teacher."

" _He's_ the very _embodiment_ of _Aladdin_ " -

Isabella slammed her phone down on her desk. "One more racist remark an' I will stomp your ass, yeah?" she hissed, not caring who heard, only for her eye to be caught by a tall moustachioed man in amber and gold checked tweed, his dark hair slicked back, a black cravat carelessly knotted around his neck. He was weaving his way through the maze of desks, peering at people through his monocle, nostrils twitching oddly. "Anyways," Isabella said, shaking her head, turning her attention back to her stepmother, "where were we?"

"You were _threatening_ me," Lady Devereux said icily. " _Remember_?" Before Isabella could frame a reply, her stepmother suddenly went sideways, grabbing Isabella's desk to stop herself from falling. " _Do_ you _mind_!?" Lady Devereux exclaimed, rounding on her assailant, only be confronted by the sight of the moustached monocled man Isabella had observed moments earlier. " _This_ is _Chanel_!" she declared, smoothing down the front of her black shift dress, her aristocratic nostrils flaring.

"Vell, this is" - the man began in a guttural German accent, gesturing to his tweed ensemble as he spoke, before launching into a series of grunts and high-pitched whistles. Then he turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving Lady Devereux speechless.

"Never mind him," Isabella said dismissively, flapping her hand, "we get all sorts in here. They spend too much time with books, and not enough with people, real people I mean, not paper people. It's tragic really."

" _Was_ that _racket_ meant to _indicate_ the _designer_ of that frankly _hideous_ suit he is _sporting_?" Lady Devereux said in disgust.

"I think so," Isabella said, not really caring.

"Ladies," a voice said stiffly behind them, making both women glance round, only to see Lord Devereux, half hunched over, his unruly grey hair almost obscuring his pellucid eyes.

"Father," Isabella said just as stiffly, "how nice to see you."

Lord Devereux surveyed his daughter, seeing himself in her, so different but the same, her thick black fringe falling into her eyes just like his own hair did, those round blue eyes his eyes, a Devereux trait that refused to die out. "Curating away, are we?" he said, his wife slipping her arm through his, a nasty smile playing across her lips, silently imparting to Isabella who held the upper hand.

"I seem to spend more time behind this desk balancing budgets and nonsense, than actual curating," Isabella said, gesturing to the virtual reams of spreadsheet on her computer screen, ignoring her stepmother's silent insult, "it wasn't exactly what I signed up for."

"I did explain it wouldn't be all ancient artefacts and buried treasure," Lord Devereux said, shaking his head, "it's not a heroic job, Isabella."

Isabella bowed her black head. She had spent years studying and travelling the world, but none of that had impressed her interviewers when she'd applied for the post of curator, only seeing her title and not past it. Her father had pulled some strings behind the scenes, donating an exorbitant amount of money towards the renovation of the Great Court, practically paying for every pane of glass in the soaring ceiling, doing damage that had taken Isabella a long time to unravel. She had battled hard to earn her place in this room, proving people wrong, but with her father standing before her desk, it felt like a hollow victory.

"Heroes are _born_ , not _made,_ Isabella darling," Lady Devereux said gently, "it's _best_ to _stay_ with _what_ you _know_ , behind _this_ desk, _making_ a _difference_ in your own _unique_ way."

Isabella just bit her lip, before drawing her keyboard towards her, silently signalling an end to the conversation. Wherever she belonged, it wasn't behind this desk, of that, Isabella was more than sure.

 _Questions of science_ _  
_ _Science and progress_ _  
_ _Do not speak as loud as my heart…_


	3. Battle-Born

**Battle-Born**

 _When they break your heart_  
 _When they cause your soul to mourn_  
 _Remember what I said_  
 _Boy you was battle-born…_

"The simple truth is," Isabella said, her voice carrying around the room, her bright blue gaze travelling over the array of interested faces before her, "that with the wilful looting and destruction of religious and historical monuments throughout the Middle East, _priceless_ artefacts are being traded on the black market by thieves and opportuniths."

As soon as the lisp escaped her lips, Isabella abruptly fell silent, losing the thread of her argument at the sudden appearance of an old impediment. Risking a glance around the room again, it was only for her gaze to alight on the moustachioed man of earlier, a smile threatening to crease the corners of his mouth.

"We face similar challenges all over the world," Isabella snapped, irritated by the moustachioed man's amusement, not understanding why he was even here at her precious Meeting, "for as we sit here, a _vast_ swathe of Amazonian rainforest, first charted by Victorian explorer, Sir Percy Fawcett, is bein' needlessly destroyed."

Archibald, who was sitting next to her, flinched a little as she momentarily slipped into a Southern accent, but Susannah inclined her head at Isabella from across the room, eyes approving, face encouraging.

"Fawcett was a visionary," Isabella said softly, taking courage from Susannah's unspoken support, having always looked up to the older curator, "and with the recent discovery of the lost Urutu tribe, we have a real opportunity to find Fawcett's last known camp." She glanced over at her father, his usually forbidding face thoughtful, her stepmother's bordering on bored. "But from where I'm sitting," she continued, a note of annoyance entering her voice, ignoring Archibald's warning glance, "all that you're having me do is... sit behind a desk, filling out budgets and viability studies" -

\- "I think what Isabella is trying to say," Archibald hastily interjected, only to be cut off by Isabella, who was now almost out of her chair.

"What I'm trying to say is - Fawcett, Carter, Livingstone, Mary Kingsley," Isabella said passionately, ignoring the moustachioed man, who'd suddenly sat bolt upright, nostrils twitching violently, "those where people who didn't sit behind desks, they went out into the world, _and_ they found what they were looking for." She slammed her fist down on the offending desk, making their coffee mugs rattle, Archibald flinching for the second time.

"Hear, hear!" Lord Devereux boomed, stumbling to his feet, clapping his earth-stained hands together. "That's my girl!"

Isabella shrank down in her seat, all fighting spirit fading, her father once again seizing the spotlight for his own. "I'm just saying, let me go out there," she said in a small voice, her humble manner more to Archibald's taste, "and _emulate_ those men and women."

Those who sat in judgement upon her, glanced around at each other, before conferring in confidential whispers, Isabella's father resuming his seat, unapologetically unabashed, her stepmother feigning interest in her manicured hands.

"These decisions take... time," Archibald said uneasily, careful to keep his voice low, "but you've done all you can for today."

Isabella frowned, before turning around, raising her eyebrows at Susannah, who nodded, silently saying to lay down the gauntlet. Biting her lip, Isabella stood up, her eye catching that of the moustachioed man, who had now stopped sniffing the air like a demented bloodhound. His dark gaze flickered over her, impudently appraising, making Isabella's hackles rise.

Feeling the now familiar annoyance flare up, she tilted her chin, eyes defiant beneath her blunt fringe. "I – we have an exhibition," she said suddenly, catching everybody's attention, "in six weeks time, to be opened by Lord Carnarvon and a member of the Royal Family. If you give me this chance, I _will_ find Fawcett's camp," she continued as the moustachioed man rose to his own feet, "and I _will_ bring back artefacts for that exhibition."

"Here _we_ go, another _wild_ goosechase," Lady Devereux muttered mutinously, edging away from the moustachioed man as he slunk past her chair, nostrils twitching anew.

"The media attention that such an exhibition would attract would serve to put the Museum back in the public eye," Isabella said persuasively, "just as the Chancellor's new budget is due to be delivered later that very same month, in which he seeks to cut public funding as part of his austerity drive."

Her words seemed to hold the room in thrall, those who sat in judgement caught in their own trap, only thinking of funding. Then the spell was broken, the moustachioed man suddenly pouncing on Isabella's stepmother, throwing a net over her, the whole room erupting into chaos.

"What _the_ devil are _you_ doing!?" Lady Devereux screeched. "Unhand _me_ at _once!_ " But just as she screamed this, she toppled off the edge of her chair, landing in an undignified heap on the floor, the moustachioed man trying and failing to drag her away, Lord Devereux circling him, threatening him with a square go.

"Your family are rather memorable," Susannah said, coming up beside the shellshocked Isabella, "and so is that bizarre baron's suit."

"Who is he?" Isabella said in disbelief, watching Archibald jump onto the stranger's back, hooking his arms around his neck.

"I have no idea," Susannah said honestly, "but I would give a fortune to know."


	4. My Oh My

**My Oh My**

 _Racey days_ _  
_ _Help me through the hopeless haze_ _  
_ _But my oh my_ _  
_ _Tragic eyes…_

Isabella collapsed onto one of the numerous battered leather armchairs crowding out Susannah's office, before propping her feet up on the glass coffee table, Susannah immediately slapping her soles with a rolled up _Tatler_ , forcing Isabella's feet floorwards.

" _That_ ," Susannah said, indicating the coffee table with the _Tatler_ , "is a family heirloom, I'll have you know."

" _That_ ," Isabella echoed, "is an accident just waiting to happen."

"For you, yes," Susannah agreed, "but for the rest of us not so clumsy bi-peds, no."

Isabella closed her eyes, knowing where this was going.

"Only _you_ could secure permission to head to the Amazon in order to locate artifacts that may or not exist," Susannah said, perching on the armrest of Isabella's chair, " _especially_ after that debacle in there with your family and that bizarre baron." She studied Isabella for a moment, reluctant admiration battling with amusement. "I must say though, you rescued the situation admirably," she said with some surprise, remembering Isabella uncharacteristically rising to the occasion, smoothing everything over, "unlike some people I could mention."

"Archie?" Isabella hazarded, daring to open one eye. "His have-a-go hero routine did backfire rather spectacularly." She closed her eyes again, not wanting to relive the memory of Archibald jumping on the mustachioed man's back, trying and failing to bring him down with a chokehold, her stepmother trussed up like a fish in a net, her father circling the scene, fists raised, making him resemble an aging Rocky. It had cost Isabella everything to turn the tide in her favour, restoring the Meeting to a modicum of order with wit and charm, achieving all that she'd envisioned.

"I've given Archibald the rest of the week off to recover," Susannah said tiredly, "though I still can't explain how he ended up dangling from that light fitting by his underpants."

"Magic?"

"Who knows?" Susannah said, running a hand down the side of her face. "But that baron has disappeared into thin air - or so security says."

Isabella just wrapped her arms around her head, unable to exult over her victory, still feeling like a failure.

"Does Achraf know you're now going to the Amazon?" Susannah asked, making Isabella finally open both eyes, raising her head again as Susannah spoke.

"No," Isabella said evasively, "but he will."

"Has he at least been _aware_ of you going to the Amazon at some point?"

"N-o-t exactly," Isabella said wincing, "ya see, we're tryin' to plan two weddin's" -

\- "Why two?" Susannah asked, confused. "I was of the mind there's only usually one."

Isabella bit her lip, struggling to keep her Southern accent under control before it became impossible to understand. "We're going to have a traditional Church of Scotland wedding," she explained, confusing Susannah further, "but Achraf's family would like us to have a traditional Lebanese ceremony as well, so we thought we'd do both, y'know, keep everyone happy."

"So where does disappearing off to the Amazon fit into all this wedding planning?"

"I thought I'd shoehorn it in," Isabella said weakly, "somehow..."

"You should have told Achraf about the Amazon long before now," Susannah said reprovingly.

"I know, and I will," Isabella said, sinking down into her seat, "but I just kept putting it off. I mean, he knows about the exhibition, but not the part about me going to the Amazon and trying to find treasure."

"Well, you're certainly stuck up a creek without a paddle," Susannah said, exhaling sharply, "what with assuring them Upstairs that the British Museum will continue to receive governmental funding, from a budget you have no control over, based on the discovery of something we don't know actually exists."

"I _know_ ," Isabella whined, "I've really gone and done it now."

"Just make sure you don't come back empty-handed," Susannah tried and failed to say encouragingly, "or we're all screwed."


	5. Just Call Me Merlin

**Just Call Me Merlin**

 _Three weeks later_

 **AMAZON RIVER BASIN, 84KM SOUTH OF MANAUS, AUTAZES LOGGING STATION**

Ezekiel folded his arms behind his head, leaning back in his seat, watching as the woman picked up the diamond with a pair of tweezers, her eyeglass lending her an oddly rakish air. Watching them from the corner was who Ezekiel referred to as the 'Lapdog', a giant of a man with a skull tattooed on his face, the inked pattern overlaying his own features.

"It's a fake," the woman said abruptly, dumping the diamond back down on the cloth-covered table, taking out her eye-glass at the same time. "I'll give you fifty bucks, take it or leave it."

"I'm actually surprised it's worth fifty," Ezekiel said, arching an eyebrow. "But it's not the stone I came in with," he said airily, before suddenly flipping the cloth forwards, revealing another diamond beneath, "you switched it."

The woman just steepled her fingers, the 'Lapdog' breathing heavily through flared nostrils, Ezekiel then rising to his feet, his dark gaze darting between the doorway and the table.

"I coined that trick," Ezekiel informed them with some annoyance, "so don't insult my intelligence by pulling my own party piece on me!" Before anybody could react, he had reached out and plucked the diamond like a plum, before popping it into his mouth, swallowing it whole. "And that is _that_ ," Ezekiel announced, before burping, clamping a hand over his lips too late. "Pardon me," he apologised, "it must have been something I ate" -

Before he could react, he was suddenly swung off his feet by the 'Lapdog', before becoming just as suddenly airborne, the world whirling past in a wild blur, and then he hit the window, crashing through it in an explosion of glass and timber. Landing in a crumpled heap of limbs, Ezekiel just lay there in a pile of shards and splinters, the breath utterly knocked out of him. Nearby, a horse neighed in mocking amusement, making Ezekiel raise his head with some difficulty. "Flynn?" he groaned. "What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

* * *

"Um, Jenkins," Cassandra said nervously, skipping from one foot to another, making Jenkins raise his silver head from the fondant icing he was appraising, "we may have a leetle problemo."

Jenkins removed his monocle, brow furrowing. "Whilst I am glad to see you gracing this fine academic establishment, Miss. Cillian," he said slowly, "I am at a loss to explain your rather sudden appearance. Aren't you meant to be in Arizona, trying to tame a mystical tornado or two?"

"It's on my to-do list," Cassandra said in a wild rush, "but before I go storm-chasing, I have to inform you I have found Flynn and also Ezekiel."

"Have you?" Jenkins said, suddenly straightening up. "Where? Flynn, not Ezekiel." After mistakenly believing Lady Devereux to be Baba Yaga, Flynn had finally found the real Baba at a bus stop, only to find himself on the end of a rather nasty incantation in turn, consequently disappearing into thin air. He had been missing for two weeks now, Jenkins, Eve and the others trying and failing to track him down, Baba having long since gone to ground, irritatingly untraceable again.

"You see, that's the thing," Cassandra said with a wince, "I just got a phone call from Ezekiel who is in a spot of bother."

"Clarify, please."

"He's... he's started a sideline selling stolen jewels," Cassandra said, biting her lip, "it's nothing to do with the Library or anything – it's his old contacts asking him to do favours for them. He says he's got to keep his hand in, but I think he owes them old debts - what I'm trying to say is, Flynn's been turned into a horse and Ezekiel is getting his ass kicked in the Amazon over some diamond."

"And how exactly does Flynn fit into this interesting equation?"

"I think I'll need to get back to you on that."

Jenkins sighed heavily. "I suppose Flynn is in the Amazon," he deduced tiredly, "where Ezekiel's... rump is."

"Yes," Cassandra said, skipping from one foot to the other again, "and he _really_ needs help."

Jenkins looked at his favourite Librarian for a long moment, on the edge of refusing, before discreetly surrendering. "Where's Eve?" Jenkins said with another heavy sigh, glancing around him. "I think we could use her fists."

"She's on a date."

"She's on a what?"

"A romantic interlude with a fictional character," Cassandra specified. "Moriarty to be precise."

"Ah," Jenkins said, before glancing up as Jacob strolled through the door. " _Ah_ ," he repeated with more enthusiasm, suddenly seeing the answer to all his problems. "Stone, come here," Jenkins suddenly summoned, crooking his finger, "I have a rather beautiful brawl going begging if you're interested."

* * *

With some difficulty, Ezekiel staggered to his feet, only to find the 'Lapdog' looming over him. "Christ on a cracker," Ezekiel groaned, glancing down at the cracked phone he was gripping like grim death, still amazed he'd gotten a signal in the Amazon of all places. Whilst lying sideways like a landed fish, he'd swallowed his pride and called Cassandra for help, realising too late he was out of his depth, but help didn't seem to be forthcoming.

"It's time to die, little man," the 'Lapdog' growled, circling Ezekiel with raised fists, "but not before you shit that diamond out."

"Do you have bog roll?" Ezekiel asked, tilting his head to the side. "Not the cheap stuff. I have delicate skin" -

\- "Jones!" Jacob yelled, making Ezekiel whirl around. "Get the hell back!"

"Finally, the calvary!" Ezekiel bellowed back. "What took you so long!"

"I needed to polish my knuckles," Jacob said through gritted teeth, "then Jenkins had to fire up the back door." He glanced over at the handsome chestnut horse watching the proceedings with mild interest. "I take it that's Flynn," he said, "a four-legged Flynn that is."

"Yeah," Ezekiel answered, "but he's the least of our problems right now."

"I can see that," Jacob said, eyeing the 'Lapdog' with a critical eye, "but Skull-Face is the least of _your_ problems. Jenkins is breathin' fire over your little sideline. You are facin' some heavy wrath when you get back."

" _If_ I go back," Ezekiel snapped as Jacob dodged a sudden punch. "I was toying with the idea of turning rogue."

"Really?" Jacob said, girding his loins as the 'Lapdog' donned a rather nasty looking knuckle-duster.

"Really, really."

"It's your call, man," Jacob said, pulling out a flick-knife from the inside of his checked shirt with a flourish. "But I'm not goin' to baby-sit you."

"I didn't ask you to come here."

"Yeah, you did."

"I asked for assistance."

"I am your assistance!" Jacob snapped, before swallowing hard as the 'Lapdog' suddenly pulled out a Panga blade.

"Well, I goddamn don't need it!" Ezekiel snapped back, only for Jacob to suddenly fade from view, face astonished. "What!?" Ezekiel said in disbelief. "I didn't mean it!"

"Be careful what you wish for," Flynn neighed, startling Ezekiel all over again, "especially when dealing with sentient libraries."

"Thanks for the heads-up," Ezekiel retorted, turning his attention to the bewildered 'Lapdog', his Panga knife now held uncertainly by his side.

"Sorcery!" the 'Lapdog' suddenly yelled, jabbing a thick finger at Ezekiel. "Necromancy!"

"Just call me Merlin, mate," Ezekiel acknowledged, before everything went black.

 _I caught my stride_  
 _I flew and flied_  
 _I know if destiny's kind, I've got the rest of my mind..._


	6. Out of Control

**Out of Control**

When Ezekiel opened his eyes, it was only to find himself hanging upside down like a piñata, his head spinning like a top. "What fresh hell is this?" he muttered, having a vague memory of being trussed up like a turkey by the woman and the 'Lapdog', before being dragged through the forest by Flynn, attached to his hooves by the ankles, the rope cutting into his skin.

"Hell?" a voice hazarded from somewhere unseen to the left of him. "I think there's only really the one."

"Not according to Dante," Ezekiel said, looking around for Flynn, who was now nowhere to be seen.

"Well, I'm not going to tally up the various circles of hell," the voice retorted, "especially when you landed us slap bang right in the middle of this one."

"I did?"

"Think, fratboy. It may come back to you."

Ezekiel frowned, the past still hazy. "Really still not remembering," he said, swaying side to side like a pendulum.

"Does a monkey skull made of solid gold ring a bell?"

Ezekiel instantly straightened up, only to bang his head off the ground, making him just as instantly hunch over again. As he cursed uselessly under his breath, he vaguely recalled colliding with a bunch of loin-cloth wearing strangers, a small monkey skull made of solid gold landing literally in his lap, the memory unsurprisingly standing out above everything else. "Yeah, I remember now," he said hastily, glancing around for Flynn again, wanting to kick his equestrian ass for apparently abandoning him.

"You bloody well should since you stole it!"

Ezekiel's brow furrowed. "That's not how it went down, mate," he said, craning his neck, trying and failing to see who he was talking to, "I crashed into some cult, and then that skull was in my hands, through no fault of my own, might I add. It was just... there."

"Actually, you crashed into the ancient Urutu tribe, previously thought to be lost" -

\- "Okay, enough with the enlightenment," Ezekiel snapped, "I've got places to be, man."

"So do I" -

\- "Do you know where my horse went by any chance?" Ezekiel cut across the voice, not interested in hearing it extol a list of social events it was meant to be attending.

"After our Urutu companions knocked you out with some primitive sort of truncheon, they – they-decided-to-have-your-horse-for-dinner."

"They what!?" Ezekiel yelped. "That's barbaric!"

"I tried to stop them" -

\- "But my horse wasn't a horse" -

\- "but they were being deliberately obtuse"-

\- "he was a man who was turned into a horse!"

"He was a what!?"

"He was turned into a horse," Ezekiel said, struggling with his bonds, "by Baba Yaga. Don't ask me to explain why."

" _How_ , then!?"

"Duh, magic, of course."

"I don't believe in magic."

Ezekiel just closed his eyes and shook his head, not wanting to instigate an existential debate on the existence of magic. "Who the hell are you anyways?" he demanded, craning his neck again, just enough to see a pair of irate blue eyes glaring at him through a fall of tangled black hair.

"My mother said never to speak to strangers."

"All you've done is talk the ears off me!"

The voice was silent for a moment, processing the logic of his statement. "I was asking for directions from the Urutu hunting party," the voice said reluctantly, "when you suddenly came out of nowhere, stealing a sacred relic while you were at it" -

\- "I told you, it was just there, in my hands! You can't argue against the laws of attraction" -

\- "and for some bizarre reason they jumped to the conclusion I was in cahoots with you," the voice said as if he hadn't spoken, "wherein they went from happy to help, to stringing me up higher than Hamen!"

Ezekiel just rolled his eyes. "What's a chick like you doing in a place like this anyhow?" he asked against his will, her cultured tones sitting at odd with their situation, stirring his curiosity.

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

"Keep telling yourself that," Ezekiel muttered, before a sudden flash of movement caught his attention, making his head snap up, promptly smashing off the ground again. "What are they doing?" he demanded, not liking the look of the wooden stake two tribesman were hammering into the ground, one holding the stake steady, the other baring his teeth as he swung the makeshift mallet downwards.

"They're making the necessary preparations to stake me over that fire ant's nest," the voice said wearily, "it's the standard tribal punishment for errant women."

"Nasty," Ezekiel said, whistling through his teeth, before an alarming thought arrested him. "Hey, what about me?" he said, panic suddenly setting in. "Are they gonna stake me too?"

"You're a thief," the voice spat, "so the tribe will hold a yohimbi trial."

"A what trial?"

"Usually the outcome is already decided," the voice continued, "wherein you join the chief's harem, serving his every need, doing your duty as a good wife should."

"I'm a bloke!"

"It's meant as a title of degradation."

"Well, he's not my type," Ezekiel snapped as the chief strode past, wearing a rather bedraggled feathered headdress, his saggy knees on somewhat sickening eye-level with Ezekiel, "he's got more wrinkles than my grandma."

"There is... another way for your honour to be regained."

Ezekiel sensed a trap within the words, but he'd run out of options, and he didn't particularly fancy assuming the ancient shackles of matrimony either. "What would that be, then?" he asked suspiciously, eyes narrowing.

"The Urutu are immensely proud of their warriors," the voice explained, "if you were to challenge and defeat their strongest warrior, they'd see it as the will of the gods."

Ezekiel gnawed his lower lip, weighing up his chances, not really fancying risking his beloved fingers. Being no Jacob or Eve, he might never pick a lock again or shoplift some Chardonnay. "So if I win, they have to let us go?" he said carefully, setting his snare.

"So I believe," the voice replied tiredly, instantly confirming all his suspicions.

"You're just using me to get the hell out of hell!" Ezekiel exploded. "Why don't you save yourself? I don't do damsels in distress!?"

"Neither do I, actually."

"What, _I'm_ the damsel!?" Ezekiel exclaimed in disbelief.

"I had to stop them from chopping off your thieving hands," the voice snapped, "which took considerable effort on my part, might I add. It was only the casual reference to a curse befalling the whole tribe that they commuted your sentence to a yohimbi trial. Now I'm trying to help you avoid that fate as well, so I think I'm doing my damnedest" -

\- "Okay, point taken, mate," Ezekiel cut across the voice, "and... thanks, for my hands, I mean." There was an awkward silence, Ezekiel then clearing his throat awkwardly. "Couldn't you have said if they took the horse they would be struck down by the gods for sacrilege?" he said, wincing at the thought of explaining to Eve and the others that Flynn was now nothing but dinner on someone's plate.

"Trust me, I tried that," the voice said witheringly, "but that was the part where they were suddenly struck down by deafness."

"Convenient that, huh?" Ezekiel said with a heavy sigh, before resigning his precious fingers to their precarious fate.

 _We're the puzzle I can't fix_  
 _A million pieces still missing_  
 _When I look at you and me, I still can't tell what this is_  
 _But it's out of my control..._


	7. We Don't Need Roads

**We Don't Need Roads**

Ezekiel was flung backwards, then sideways, then backwards again, before finding himself rolling to a halt at the feet of the voice, who had transpired to be some posh bird specializing in offering abysmal advice. "Have you thought about not getting _quite_ so close to him?" she suggested, cupping her hands together to form a makeshift microphone, muffling her words oddly.

"I actually want to be best friends with his fist," Ezekiel said, glaring at her upside down face, the sight making him dizzy. After challenging the Urutu tribe's best warrior to some fisticuffs, it was only to find himself engaged in deadly mortal combat, Ezekiel desperately trying to stay one step ahead of getting his head kicked in.

The voice rolled her round blue eyes, before stepping over Ezekiel, rolling up the sleeves of her dirty denim shirt as she did. "Come on," she said, beckoning the warrior forwards with both hands, the gesture taunting, "pick on somebody your own size."

The warrior tilted his head to the side, looking confused, the other members of his tribe doing the same. He then fired several incomprehensible strings of syllables at his chief, who shrugged his shoulders, signaling it was in the lap of the gods. The warrior gritted his teeth, before suddenly turning and charging at the voice, who swiftly sidestepped him.

"Nice move – what's your name again?" Ezekiel said from his still prone position, watching as she sidestepped the charging warrior again, feigning a yawn as she did.

"Isabella," she said smartly, before suddenly swinging her arm upwards, landing a solid right hook upon the warrior, sending him sprawling.

"Whoa!" Ezekiel exclaimed. "Where the hell did you learn to punch like that!?"

"Finishing school," Isabella said, doing a sarcastic curtsy, only to suddenly trip over her own feet, landing face-down on the dirt.

The chief immediately went over to Isabella, placing his bony foot on her shoulder, before striking a stance that could only be described as triumphant.

"Hey, what's happening?" Ezekiel demanded, sitting up as he spoke, watching the chief then apparently address the sky, holding his wrinkled hands aloft.

"I've forfeited the fight," Isabella said with some difficulty, "I will now be sacrificed to the god of the mountain and you will be tied to a tree."

"What then!?"

"You will still be tied to the tree," Isabella translated, spitting out some soil, almost gagging, "which is a marked improvement upon yohimbi, if I may say so myself."

"You may," Flynn said from behind Ezekiel, making him whirl around, the sight of seeing Flynn returned to his original form making the thief almost faint in terrible relief.

"You're alive!" Ezekiel cried, casting all dignity aside as he cast himself upon Flynn, clinging to his leg. "I thought you were in the great big stable in the sky, mate!"

Flynn just stood there, patiently enduring Ezekiel's embrace whilst eying his audience, the Urutu eying him in return, suspending their judgement upon the shirtless stranger. He had a nasty looking slash across his shoulder, his only garments a pair of torn trousers, his feet bare, a leaf caught in his dark hair. He hadn't exactly appreciated being turned into a horse, but in a bizarre way, he'd enjoyed being equine, only thinking of finding some nice hay and maybe sourcing a sugar lump or two. It had provided a pleasant escape from his usually feverish thought process, Flynn never realising until that moment how exhausting it was being Flynn Carsen.

Isabella just stared with wide eyes at this odd turn of events, something about Flynn's face striking her as strangely familiar, several seconds passing until it abruptly clicked into place. "It's you!" she bellowed. "Baron Brinkerhoff!"

"I operate under many titles," Flynn said, examining a fingernail, "but you can call me Carsen, Flynn Carsen."

"Where's your handle-bar mustache?" Isabella snapped. "On holiday, huh?"

"What, want it to send you a postcard?"

"You nearly cost me my career!" Isabella yelled, only to inhale some earth, making her sputter wildly.

"I was looking for a witch" -

\- "A what!? " -

\- "Witch. W.I.T. " -

\- "I can spell, smartass," Isabella retorted, "but why a witch!?"

"So you're admitting she's a witch?"

"Who, my stepmother?"

"So you _are_ admitting it?" Flynn pressed.

"Is this the time or place, mate!?" Ezekiel said, finally letting go of Flynn's leg, looking nervous as the Urutu started to circle them. "The locals seem to be getting a bit antsy."

"I noticed," Flynn said almost absentmindedly, before suddenly whirling around, booting the warrior right in the balls, who had just been about to sink a dagger into his spine. "Oh, jings!" Flynn hollered, hopping from one foot to the other, as the warrior doubled up, clutching his groin.

"Oh, did you stub your sweet little toe?" Isabella said sarcastically, finally managing to get to her feet, sending the chief staggering sideways.

"No, I'm doing a rain-dance!" Flynn spat, the pain making him see stars, before suddenly falling sideways, losing his balance.

As Flynn fell, Ezekiel's head snapped up, eyes widening. "Come to daddy," he breathed, seeing the sun glint off the golden monkey skull being brought forth into the fray, all his attention suddenly centered upon it.

"Not again," Isabella complained, as Ezekiel suddenly threw himself forwards, scattering the Urutu like leaves. Exhaling sharply, she bent down and hastily gathered up several rocks, just as the Urutu regathered themselves, Flynn dragging himself to his feet at the same time. "Incoming!" she boomed, hurling a rock at the head of the chief, making him dive out of the way. "First-class delivery!"

"What the devil are you doing!?" Flynn demanded, dodging a spear, before doing a bizarre pirouette, an arrow whizzing past, just missing him.

"Just follow the thief!" Isabella snapped, jerking her head at Ezekiel who was now escaping the scene, clutching the golden monkey skull to his chest, its former carrier cursing him with a wild storm of words.

"You lily-livered little coward!" Flynn shouted, tearing after Ezekiel, Isabella following Flynn, throwing rock after rock at the Urutu as she did.

"Hey, it's this way!" Isabella yelled as Ezekiel and Flynn suddenly took a sharp left, instead of continuing right. "Certain doom surely lies in that direction!"

"How the hell do you know that!?" Flynn bellowed, backpedaling, dragging Ezekiel by the shirt-collar along with him at the same time. "As far as I can see, we're doomed whatever direction we dally!"

"I have a boat!" Isabella explained, leading the way, chucking the last of the rocks over her shoulder, just missing Flynn's face.

"Behold, Captain Pugwash!" Flynn declaimed, shoving Ezekiel on, making him stagger.

"Down here!" Isabella called, ignoring his insult, sliding down the muddy incline that led to the river instead. "Mind your step!"

Flynn heeded her warning too late, his feet slipping out from under him, falling headfirst down the slope, dragging Ezekiel down into disaster with him, the pair crashing into Isabella, knocking her over and into the boat. "Did you say something about minding our step!?" Flynn choked out, Ezekiel almost strangling him as he hauled himself upwards, using Flynn's throat as a rope.

Isabella slowly raised her head, before just as slowly pushing the tumbled hair out of her eyes, face utterly furious. "Just get in the boat!" she screeched, only for a spear to suddenly fly past, just missing her, landing in the river instead.

"Okay, boat, in, now!" Ezekiel agreed, diving onboard, making the boat rock perilously, knocking Isabella over again.

"Get the oars!" Flynn ordered, jumping into the shallows, shouldering the boat, giving it a good shove in order to launch it, spears sailing merrily past his nose.

"Get in, Flynn!" Isabella retorted, snatching up an oar as she spoke, Ezekiel doing the same on her other side.

"In like Flynn, eh?" Rolling his eyes, Flynn then half-waded, half ran alongside the boat, before grabbing the side, hauling himself aboard, collapsing heavily onto a pile of canvas sacks.

"Hey, watch my spare supplies!" Isabella snapped, frantically paddling, only to almost lose her oar. "I don't have any other spare supplies going spare!"

"Argh, arrows!" Ezekiel exclaimed, ducking as a sudden hail of arrows soared overhead, followed by another wave of spears.

"Thank you for making the obvious, obvious!" Isabella hissed, flinching as a spear pierced the precariously constructed canvas roof that served as shade against the harsh Amazonian sun. "Now row!"

"This is a motor-boat!" Flynn said in disbelief, just noticing that little fact in that moment. "With an engine! Which I will now rev!"

"Please do so!" Isabella retorted.

"I will!" Flynn declaimed. "Watch!" Within moments, the boat had zoomed out of reach of the Urutu, the riverbank whizzing past, Flynn striking a noble pose at the tiller, pluming himself on his heroics. "Don't thank me," Flynn said pompously, "thank my epically proportioned intellect!"

Isabella just scowled at him, throwing down her oar into the depths of the boat, Ezekiel following her example. "What the hell are you doing here!?" she demanded, pushing the hair out of her eyes again, the wind making it billow wildly around her face. "Are you following me!?"

"You two know each other?" Ezekiel asked as Flynn slowed down the engine, much to Isabella's relief. "No, wait, I should already know this, right?"

"Handlebar mustache, witch, stepmother," Flynn reminded him, "and no, I'm not following you," he said impatiently, turning to Isabella, "I was at a bus stop when I got cursed, and somehow I ended up in the Amazon, only to find I had hooves instead of hands."

"You what?" Isabella said in disbelief.

"Do the math!" Flynn snapped. "Teleportation and transfiguration!"

"How did you change back?" Ezekiel said, brow furrowing. "Izzie here said you were din-dins."

Flynn glanced down at himself. "Oh, they tried to carve me up like a Christmas turkey," he said dismissively, "but to counter the curse, blood needs to be drawn, so first slash, I ended up me again."

"You are a horse?" Isabella said with some difficulty. "Or you _were_ a horse?"

"I'm a man who was turned into a horse," Flynn said, raising his eyes heavenwards, "before becoming a horse who was turned into a man. Work it out, woman."

"Shall I just call you A Man Called Horse and make it easy for everyone?" Isabella flared up. "Or should I set my cards on the table and tell you what I really think!?"

"Go on then! Tell me! I'm all ears!"

"If I was feeling charitable, I would say you were suffering from sunstroke," Isabella said coldly, "but since I'm not, I'll tell the bald truth – you're nuts!"

"Keep the compliments coming," Flynn said scathingly, "and where did you put that monkey skull I seen you nursing to your bosom like a newborn infant during our wild flight?" he fired at Ezekiel, who had the grace to look guilty, eyes suddenly shifty.

"Down my shirt," Ezekiel admitted, patting his chest, "safe and sound."

Flynn frowned. "That wasn't your solid gold religious relic to take, you know," he said, waggling a reproving finger at Ezekiel. "You will return it as soon as those savages back there take a breather" -

\- "Hey!" Isabella protested. "Don't be so bloody patronizing! The Urutu tribe are a wise and ancient people. It was Fagin here who fucked everything up with his antics, not them!"

"Hey, language," Flynn snapped. "I appreciate your angle, but right now, we're literally up a creek without a paddle."

"We have two paddles actually," Isabella snapped back, holding an oar aloft, "so your analogy is illogical."

Flynn looked at her for a long moment. "You have a name, then?" he then asked, glancing out at the horizon, dark eyes distant. "Isabella, wasn't it? Or Izzie, according to Ezekiel here."

"My name is Isabella Diana Elizabeth Turlington-Sanderson-Devereux," Isabella said stiffly, never liking saying her triple-barreled surname, always preferring to limit it to Devereux.

Flynn raised an eyebrow. "Well, let's just say, I wouldn't like to be the person who filled out your birth certificate," he observed, making Isabella roll her eyes.

"So you have six names?" Ezekiel said in disbelief. "Could your parents not make up their mind, mate?"

"It's four names actually," Isabella said testily. "My surname is hyphenated."

Ezekiel digested this digression. "Why are you out here, anyways?" he then asked, glancing at Isabella, taking her from head to toe with one swift assessing look. "You don't look the type to dirty their hands, if you get my drift."

"She works at the British Museum," Flynn said, answering for Isabella, who just glared at him, remembering again how he'd almost ruined her momentous Meeting, "and she's supposed to be searching for the lost camp site of the Victorian explorer, Percy Fawcett. However, she seems to have become a little... sidetracked."

"Understatement of the century!" Isabella spluttered. "No thanks to you and Fagin here, I'm currently" -

\- "Up a creek without a paddle?" Flynn finished for her.

"Never mind that," Ezekiel said irritably, "this dude, Fawcett, he was looking for _Z_ , wasn't he?"

"The lost city of Z," Flynn began loftily, "the thief's ultimate fantasy" -

\- "Eldorado," Isabella snapped, wrecking Flynn's reverie, "the city of gold, yah-di-yada."

"It's _the_ city of _gold_ , man!" Ezekiel exclaimed. "You cannot sit there and turn up your nose at a city made completely of _gold!_ "

Isabella frowned. "I'm not interested in mercenary matters," she said, "I'm only after original artifacts. After Fawcett disappeared, he became an enigma, a byword for the bizarre. I want the world to see him as a man of vision, not some seedy mystery that was never solved. I plan to create a tableau at the British Museum, using the artifacts I hopefully find, to achieve this end" -

\- "You're a curator, right?" Ezekiel interrupted. "Only a curator could talk like that, Miss. Museum, spending too much time looking backwards, instead of forwards."

"I take it you don't have much time for museums, then," Isabella said coolly, her gaze flickering over Flynn's broad frame as she spoke, before catching herself in time, shock stunning her back into sense. She was practically a married woman, yet here she was, eying up a practical stranger, one she was very much beginning to detest, Flynn embodying everything that set her nerves on edge.

"I like to go...eh, window-shopping in museums," Ezekiel said evasively, "but that's about it. Only good for gathering dust, that's what I say."

"Window-shopping? In museums?" Isabella said sceptically, determinedly keeping her eyes away from Flynn's bare chest, imagining Achraf doing various manly tasks around their house instead, such as washing the dishes and sewing his socks. "More like you're scouting out your next steal!"

"What, you're the museum police now, huh?" Ezekiel snapped, not liking a stranger sitting in judgement on him.

"How can we learn from history if imbeciles like you keep nicking it!?" Isabella exclaimed. "History is so important – it helps us understand where we come from!"

"Sometimes meddling with history is a very bad idea," Flynn said coolly, making Isabella glance at him, making her forget all her good resolutions, "ever heard of the butterfly effect?"

"I'm not talking about time-travel!" Isabella exploded. "I'm merely pointing out the advantages of learning from the past, not about taking a trip there. The past may be another country, but unfortunately there is no passport to it, only an empty hope of what may have been" -

\- "Or we could just fire up the back door," Flynn finished for her. "We don't need roads!"

 _Stars can be really hard to draw_  
 _If you don't know where they are_  
 _That crazy star field can leave you too far..._


End file.
